Stephen exhales again, slow. Still feeling a little discombobulated by her presence, the ghosting memory of her fingers in his skull.

It’s too big a can of worms to open when she’s a walking talking can of worms herself. Tony had been a strained colleague, eventually maybe a friend after a year in Thedas. Someone he’d once led to their death. He thought he’d done the same with her. He can’t get into it. So—

“I don’t know that it matters,” Stephen says instead, his voice mild, her snap ricocheting off that carefully-honed neutrality. It’s not the place or time to discuss his feelings with Wanda Maximoff, when he abhors having them at all, and would prefer to neatly sidestep them. “But I’m here. You’re here. That’s what we’re working with. Which reminds me—”

And then, perhaps it’s a distraction and another deflection from the wounds between them, or maybe he just remembered what he was supposed to be doing, but he picks up the piece of paper he brought with him and frisbees it in Wanda’s direction with the flick of a wrist. It drifts over, to be snatched up at ease: a blank questionnaire.